


Red

by Klon3



Category: Batman - Fandom, DC - Fandom
Genre: Gen, OC, Psychopath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klon3/pseuds/Klon3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breaking minds and shattering lives. Staging scenes and opening eyes. Don't believe your lying sight. I'll be waiting in the night. <br/>-Arthur Haven</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood

Red. Everything was red. All of it. The dust from the street. The windows. The wall seemed to glow. It was the color of a sunset. The color of beauty. In this warehouse it seemed the color of madness. Red outlined the silhouette of the madman. His coat was too long, his visage too cheery. His smile too wide. Red spread across his face, no thanks to the light. This was the color of blood. Then there were the eyes. Too much joy was contained there, too much excitement. Arthur’s eyes glanced at the manic’s hands. One was up by his face, scratching his jaw. The other held a gun, cocked and ready to fire. Was this the boss? 

“Have a seat.” The freak’s smile grew wider.

 

Arthur shook his head. The freak laughed a bit.

 

“Let’s make ourselves a deal. You say yes, maybe I uncock this gun. Say no, and I’ll pull the trigger. Have. A. Seat.” The freak raised the gun to Arthur’s head, brushing against his crew cut brown hair.

 

“I wouldn’t say no, if I were you.”

 

Arthur sat down. The chair was hard. Too hard. Too hard to feel confident, not hard enough to distract from the insanity in front of him. His leather jacket rustled against the metal. The freak smirked. Arthur blinked, drawing his eyelid across his blue-grey iris.

 

“Life has a funny way of throwing curveballs at you. Either you take them and use ‘em to make you stronger, or you let them pass you by as you waste away.” His head cocked, freakishly similar to the gun he held.

 

“Which kind are you? I know I’m one that takes opportunities as they come, and well look at me.” His arms spread wide, bringing the gun away from Arthur’s face.

 

“I’m the scariest person you’ll ever meet.”

 

Arthur didn’t deny this. Kinda hard to think of anything when this freak was in front of him. Come to think of it, he looked like a clown. As if they weren’t creepy enough. Who was this guy anyway? Why was he afraid? Arthur wasn’t one to be afraid. Most people didn’t phase him, but this guy was nuts.

 

“What’s your deal?” Arthur’s voice rang out true and solid.

 

The freak’s smile left his face.   
  
“You’ll speak when spoken to.” The statement came out as a threat.

His purple sleeved arm raised again.

 

“You know, this gun is on a hair trigger. One gram of pressure and your brains are all over the wall.” The freak smiled again.

 

“You strike me as an opportunist, Arthur. This could be the thing that makes you great.” The red sun shone through the window, bright in Arthur’s eyes.

 

The freak started to walk away.

 

“You ever hear of Batman?” He looked over his shoulder then.

 

“He wears this mask, goes around stopping crime and restoring order.” He walked back toward Arthur, putting one foot up on the chair.

 

“Disgusting I know. He also has these orphans he likes to cart around, two particular ones.” He started to pick at his teeth.

 

“I killed one of them once.” The freak spat out whatever it was in his teeth to one side.

 

“He didn’t stay dead. Calls himself the Red Hood. Now _he’s_ a bit more exciting. Actually kills criminals. Lets a little of the darkness out. I love it when they do that. Anyway, I’m getting off topic. I didn’t bore you did I?” The freak looked at Arthur

 

He brought the gun up Arthur’s head.

 

“I said, Did. I. Bore. You.” 

Arthur shook his head calmly. The freak smiled again, lowering the gun.

 

“Good! Hate to be an awful host. Anyway, the Batman. He’s kind of attached to these orphans, seems to look at them like sons. I tried killing one, still didn’t get him to break his rule about killing. Oh yeah, did I mention that? Batman doesn’t kill. Boring I know. Then I started thinking.” The freak tapped the gun against his head.

 

He must be crazy. One gram of pressure and he would be dead.

 

“Is there anything more painful than someone that doesn’t want to be around you?” He stopped for a second.

 

“I mean, someone who’s slightly not dead. If they just didn’t want your help, that would drive you to kill someone right? But that’s not enough to break the bat. What if he didn’t even remember you? Now that would hurt even worse. They wouldn’t just forget they loved you, they’d forget who you ever were.” The freak’s smile widened.

 

“You can help me with my little endeavor. This is what we call an opportunity.” The freak raised his gun.

 

“Say yes, and I uncock this gun. Say no, and I pull the trigger. Will you help me break the Bat?”

  
Arthur nodded. 

 

******

 

Madness is the best kind of entertainment. You’re never bored. Never lost. You always know exactly where you’re going and exactly what you’re doing. Life has a direction. It has a purpose. Insanity is the best defense against monotony. Rules are so boring. Rules are the reason we live meaningless lives. Rules hold us back. Chaos sets us free.

 

Minds aren’t meant to be static. They’re meant to expand. They’re meant to take in the infinite void of information that constantly surrounds us. They’re meant to become better. They’re meant to color outside the lines. Isn’t that what art is? Coloring outside the lines to make a point? To tell a story? To change the world? Now that’s what I’m doing. Art. Not everyone agrees with me, but people thought Van Gogh was a failure. I change things. I change people.

 

I shape society from behind a mask. A mask of my own making. I am the unsolved. I am the man in the night. I am the monster in your bedroom. I am fear unrecognized, hate unrequited. I am vengeance. I am death. I am the personification of life. I am the end. For what change can be effected except by an end? Endings define us. The end of a friendship. The end of a house. The most important end. The end of life.

 

My name is Arthur Haven and I am the best at what I do.

 

It is an art with reward, but money is simply the means to an end. I’m clever. I’m creative. I am king. Riches are not to be wasted on comforts. Riches are a tool. That tool is to be used to effect change. If money is not used for blood, then what use does it have? Death is the most efficient way to use money. It effects the most change. It inspires. How many movements have taken place because of the death of one man? The death of one man made us remember the fifth of November and the gunpowder plot.

 

I’m a seeker of blood. And I always spill what I intend to. The means of death are usually left up to me. There’s a difference between a rich businessman who died by tripping on the stairs and a rich businessman who drowned in his pool. One is an accident that could happen to anybody, the other was ironically caused by his selfishness.

  
I sniffed twice. The scent of rain was everywhere. Puddles gathered in the pothole filled road. Buildings echoed with the sound of dripping water. Drip. Drip. Drip. Always three, then a pause. The only other sounds were my breath, my shoes, and the buzzing of electric lights overhead. There were three lights, a streetlight at the entrance to an alleyway, an overhead light in the building opposite and the light I carried in my hand.

 

I struggled with the burden that my little piece of change. A petty thief. He never would do much good in the world. Not much bad either. His life would not have any effect at all, whether he died today or was killed tomorrow. He was in his early twenties, blond hair and white skin. He wore a red snapback and baggy clothes. They seemed to drape his body, much like a corpse in a sheet.

 

He would be as useful as any other. I don’t mean like the men of old used whales. I wasn’t going to carve a knife out of his leg. Although a man found impaled with his own leg would certainly be ironic. I filed it away to use later. I had a lot of files. Ideas that would never be used, scenarios that would never take place.

 

I had to create a lie. Paint this scene to look ordinary. Create a deception. Create something that would seem so normal, but so extraordinary. Create my own personal end to this person’s life that I hadn’t had any control over. Control is the only way to change things for the better. Or for the worse. But this job would bring a lot of change.

 

I laid out the story in my head. A romantic venture gone wrong would proved me with the perfect scene. Something that wasn’t too close for him, but her, now she thought it was there to last. Nothing lasted though. Everything came to its end in flames, and I was always there to see it. The story mattered only as a template for me to play out this grand story. What I was going to create was a crime scene with no murderer.

 

I had taken the liberty of wearing plastic over my shoes so I wouldn’t leave any residue. I wore surgical gloves as well, I wasn’t an idiot. A hairnet and full body crime scene investigation suit completed my array. I took off the victim’s shoes and put them on my own feet, plastic over my socks. He was about the same weight and height as me as well.

 

I painted the scene the way I saw the story in my head. First she would confront him at the entrance to this alleyway, shambled buildings on either side.

 

I became the victim. I laid his body on garbage bags close to where he would be shot. I put his shoes on, a layer of plastic over my socks. I now was this petty thief, walking with a new stash of coke. Arrogance. That’s what defined people like this. Swagger entered my walk. It probably looked strange, but framing scenes was what I did. I became my victim.

 

Reenacting a crime scene that never happened was like crafting an original dance. First there was the encounter. Walking. Ordinary walking. Then a sudden stop. My shoes squeaked on the still wet pavement. I turned around. Then the victim saw his soon to be murderer. She would be upset. Scary even. A step back. Still asserting confidence. Then there would be the gun. Two hurried steps back. An attempted apology. Weight rocks forward, then back. Then there would be the gunshot.

 

I took the victim’s blood I had collected. My own little tool, something that would siphon the blood out of a person’s system. It consisted of a bag with several holes at one end and a hose at the other. The hose had a sharp point. Two gunshot wounds, one piercing the left ventricle of the heart, the other doing little damage right next to it, that was what I had been given. I sprayed that blood out of the bag from the height of my little corpse’s heart. One quick, strong squeeze with a wide opening, and the ground was adequately covered

 

Then there would be the impact pattern. I placed the end of my tool through the victim’s chest and out the back. Then I dropped the victim’s body from where I was standing. Perfect trajectory. It landed in the pool of blood. I squeezed my bag. Yes. Just the right amount of drainage. Blood pooled around my victim, and I even took a taser to his body to give me some last minute convulsions.

 

Then there was the matter of the gun. No fingerprints were needed, so I could wipe that down. Then I tossed it aside, just so it’s not obvious. Just enough to be noticed though. Didn’t want to make the game _too_ hard for our little bird. This was beginning to be fun. I changed out of the victim’s shoes and replaced the plastic over my own shoes.

 

I dragged the body to the alleyway. Cliché really. I liked to avoid those if at all possible. For this it was necessary. I had to take my delightfully clever talents and use them to make this look like the work of someone boring. Someone routine. Ugh. That was the only part of this I hated. I got no recognition from the media. Clients could be so demanding at times.

 

Speaking of clients, this one was by far the most interesting. A psychopath, that much was obvious. Completely bonkers. A homicidal manic that was obsessed with clowns. He would be fun to figure out. Seemed pretty clear-cut. Clownish manic that wanted to drive this Batman to murder.  But in my experience, there was always more to people than met the eye.

 

Whatever the client’s reasons, the job still had to be done. I finished dragging this corpse through the alley into the garbage, forcing myself to not take every precaution. Changing habits was what I did. The lowlife was deposited in a dumpster. I had to take _some_ poetic liberty. I gathered up the bags, stuffing them into my satchel. Now I needed to finish up the loose ends

 

That’s where my note came in. A little thing, really, just a date, time and address. I used the client’s hand to stuff it in his pocket and crumple it a few times. This had to look genuine. I also took the three bricks of cocaine the victim had in his pocket and tossed them aside. They landed along the alleyway. I needed one last touch. One thing to catch the eye of the Bat’s little adoptees.

 

I called 911. This was going to be my little surprise. I held up a speaker to the phone. I’d recorded Black Mask’s voice. He’d contracted me before, and I recorded all my clients. They never knew it. Something about microphones injected into my bloodstream didn’t scream find me. I had enough contact with Black Mask that I could create a voice filter.

 

“911 what’s your emergency?” A female voice came through the speaker. 

I spoke into a box, mic on one side speaker on the other.

 

“I just found a dead body.” Black Mask’s voice came through the phone.

 

“Alright sir what is your location?”

 

I gave her the address.

 

“Now just remain on the scene until officers arrive ok?” She sounded genuinely concerned for my well being.

 

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not. I’ve got somewhere important to be.” I hung up.

 

I walked into the night, confident my little birds would find this case to be much more than they bargained for. This was fun. I called my client.

 

“It’s done.” I said through the speaker.   
  
I heard breathing on the other side of the line.

 

“Goood. All the way I wanted it?” The manic’s voice bombarded my ear, forcing me to hold the phone farther away.

“Yes, of course. I don’t screw up.” I said bitingly.

 

He had a way of getting on my nerves. I heard a loud click as he hung up. I put the phone away, and then I started to laugh. It began as a smile, then a bit of a giggle. Then I threw my head back and screamed my laughter to the skies above. It echoed off of buildings and into the streets. I guess the manic was rubbing off on me.

 


	2. Arthur

Glass shatters, and the image we’ve foolishly created breaks into a million pieces. Lots of things could feel like broken mirrors. People. In people we see a bit of ourselves everywhere. In every person there’s a bit of ourselves. I’m the most in tune with the bits of mirror inside of me. I’ve been broken already. But unlike most people, I didn’t put myself back together. I accepted my shattering with nothing but a breath. 

It made me who I am today, really. I am the shattered mirror. I threw out the parts I didn’t want and kept the ones I did. Some would say I threw out the light in favor of the darkness. I would say I threw out restrictions in favor of freedom. If that freedom is branded darkness then so it is. But it is still freedom. Because I threw out those pieces I could do my job. 

And I had done my job. Three more corpses in three different alleyways, all with no evidence of a murderer, all supposedly with Black Mask calling 911. That should get the bird’s attention. Little things. I couldn’t go too big or I’d attract the attention of the Batman. Didn’t want to do that quite yet. I still had something to do. 

 

I had to sow some seeds. 

Not ordinary seeds, no no no. Those were no good. I had to sow seeds of conflict. First I’d have to play a little game. Robin. 

“Rrrrrobin” I rolled the r

“Robiiiiinn” My sing-song voice echoed around me. 

“Robin” 

I chuckled. I would have a little surprise for him. I started to hum a little tune. Friendly. Happy. Mad. Hmm hmm hmmm-mmm. I added words. Little words. Maybe I should get Red Robin to sing it. 

“Red, red Robin flying in the blue.   
Red, red Robin roosting on a leaf.   
Red, red Robin do you know what you’re gonna do.   
Red, red Robin you’ll be begging for relief.   
Red, red Robin you’re just a little thief.”

I smiled wide. Our little Red Robin was in for a surprise. But first the planning. First the wonderful, beautiful plans that would drive a wedge between this Red Robin and his father figure. That would be beautiful. Anger was good. Anger left you impulsive. Anger left you irrational. I would have to get Red Robin to be sleep deprived. People were more likely to get angry when they were sleep deprived. Now what could I do that with…. 

I looked around my little room. I always had a room. This one was small. Plywood walls. A desk. A lamp without a shade. A notepad lay on the desk, with a single pencil, sharpened to a point. The shavings lay in a wastebasket. I had not purchased the warehouse this was in, it was some old thing owned by Queen consolidated. No-one would bother me here. My suits hung on the wall behind me. Also my mirror. 

My mirror, unshattered. I looked into my deep brown eyes. My hair was sandy blonde. The face that looked back at me had a strong jawline, with just the right amount of stubble. I didn’t look like somebody that changed. I could look into the eyes of the man before me and I didn’t see a killer. I didn’t see someone that had no conscience. 

I saw someone normal. I saw someone that would save a mother’s child. I saw someone that would pick up a date at the bar and head back for some fun at her place. I looked like anybody else. 

“Excuse me, do you have the time?” I looked like any other curious stranger. 

That’s what I would do. Something small. I could make that. I think it was time to call one of my clients. Chemistry wasn’t my strong suit. Black Mask would know someone. It would have to be specific. Something the Mask used. Something that would cause paranoia. Nothing too extreme, just enough to keep our boy up. I would have to make contact twice. That would be risky. Maybe I didn’t have to do it twice though. Once he’s seen my face I couldn’t let him see me until the end of the game. 

I had a way in mind that would let me make contact only once. But I would have to make contact still. I reached for my briefcase, under the desk. It was time to make a few phone calls.

I picked up my cell phone and dialed with a smile so wide it would be considered a grimace. 

*******  
Constructs that we create are just as easily shattered. Constructs of security. Of hope. Of love. Constructs are what keep us safe. They convince us that this time she won’t break my heart. They convince us that the bridge definitely won’t go out when we are on it. The homeless man isn’t a murderer. Little things that we say to ourselves to break us out of the monotony of life. Of course I wasn’t so blinded. 

Even robin, red, red robin had his constructs. I watched him, striding fearlessly through the streets of Gotham. He was so blind to everything. He missed the obvious. He missed what he should have seen. The glint off my rifle. The little spurt of the silencer. The tiny spark of my muzzle. It seemed lady luck was in my favor. Of course it wasn’t all lady luck. I was able to take control of the little opportunities afforded me. A beehive happened to be right by our little bird. Coincidences were opportunities. 

He looked around after my little gift punctured his arm. There was no way he could see me. I was a shadow in a dark room. A little electric light buzzed underneath me. Seemed that nobody had the sense to turn it off come daylight. That sort of dirt in the world needed to be killed off, neck twisted and left to hang as a warning to all others like them. I’d file that under things to do when I was king of the world. 

That day was coming quite soon. See I wouldn’t charge ahead like the Joker did. Try to take over the city and then the world in one fell swoop. That wouldn’t be the smart way to go about it. Quick action attracts attention. Slow, steady beats were the way to go. Let everyone else try to take over the world. If one of them does I’ll be on the right side. 

Those dreams were for a grander day. For now I waited. That’s all it took now, just a waiting. I had served what thirst I had for blood by faking the crime scenes. Now it came down to that eternal waiting. Blackness threatened to take over. That blackness that I held in my mind. I fought it away. Pure, unrestrained evil was not in my best interests today. 

I was controlled. I was precise. I planned every detail and left nothing to chance. I was god. And someday this entire city would bow before me. I was king. I was now and future king. I stumbled back against the dark as it came closer to me. No. I couldn’t let it take over. I couldn’t let it ruin all my plans. 

My clarity was fading fast. I was struck by fear that I was going to kill the little bird before our game of cat and mouse finished. I couldn’t pounce quite yet. Frantically I began to look around, began to go back in my mind to what I had seen. Apartment buildings. Yes those would be perfect. I opened my briefcase as birds chirped overhead. Today was really quite beautiful. 

On went the gloves. I checked for my spare clothes. And then I let the dark take over with but one thought in mind. The apartments. Three blocks south one block west. I drank in the violence that was about to occur. The blood would fall so beautifully. I would study it so closely, analyze yet another way to kill and what evidence it would leave behind. This would be more brutal than the last. Everything would be more brutal than I had done before. 

Darkness blinded my vision. Red crept in. This was going to be one hell of a ride. 

******  
I had made my way to the apartment building. Step. Step. Step. I felt the tiny jolt in my leg as my heel connected with the door. A young woman blonde with short hair. Jeans and a yellow blouse. She screamed, running back into her apartment, locking the door behind her. Click. The sound gave me shivers. Ahhhhh. The thought of imagined safety behind a cardboard door with a metal deadbolt. I kicked. Once. Twice. The third time I hit the door just so it would burst off its hinges. Pieces of it floated through the air, obscuring my vision, but also my victim’s. 

I listened. Just listened, stood there among the wreckage and just listened. Sounds became images and I saw her breath, just to my right, behind the couch. I tilted my head to her, eyes still closed. 

“Hello.” My voice was calm. Monotone. All this I saw through my ears. 

“I’m here to kill you.” Same monotone voice. 

I saw her scream. I opened my eyes and heard the couch scraping toward me. 

“Now now now. Let’s not scratch the floor.” I pushed toward her. She screamed as I put my hand over her mouth. Oh how I wanted to take this one home. I could listen to that scream for hours. But no, I had business to attend to. Her voice muffled, I listened again. I didn’t hear anything besides the dripping of the sink. Oh no. No, no that won’t do at all. 

I dragged her over the couch, through the dust on the floor and to the sink. 

“Now what’s this. Wasting water? You waste nothing or I waste you.” I pushed her face against the faucet, bruising her temple. 

“Now how does it feel? Your life sucked away by the very thing you wasted.” I moved her helpless head under the faucet, plugging her nose. She kicked and struggled, but I had the upper hand. The water came on, and with nowhere to go all drained into her coughing, spluttering lungs. I watched her life drain away. She was limp in my arms. I looked around the room. Kicked open door, couch moved forward three feet and a cupboard snapped in half at a forty-five degree angle. Drag marks on the floor. Fascinating. 

I snapped her neck for good measure and laid her still warm body on the couch, crossing her arms. She had paid for her waste. Now was the time to respect her. I walked around the room, looking at who she was, who she had left behind. A picture frame on a shelf across from the couch had her and a man. Turning it over I saw dates. One of them ended last year. The letters R.I.P. were written. Ugh. Sentiment. 

I picked up her phone and looked through the recent calls. Work. Work. Work. Gina. Work. Work. Pizza. Loner then. Good. Only Gina would miss her. And that was a maybe. I put her phone back down. Then I thought better of it and moved it to her right pocket. In it was worn a rectangle, I lined the phone up with the rectangle. Perfect. 

I slid her wallet out of her back pocket. Jasmine Tucker. Ugh what a boring name. I slid it back in. Yes she would do nicely. An unconnected, unattached, insignificant little girl. She died for the greater good. Just before I walked out I turned off the water. It dripped. I tightened it with my hand, tearing a little piece of glove off with it. I worked the glove out of the faucet’s grip. Mmmmm today was much better now. Much better indeed.


End file.
